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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260687">The Silver Bell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy'>plumedy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Untitled Goose Game (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Femslash, Case Fic, Curses, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:15:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt, Ciri, and Dandelion celebrate Ciri's safe return. Things take a turn towards the anserine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Goose (Untitled Goose Game), Goose (Untitled Goose Game)/OFC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Press Start VI</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Silver Bell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts">thedevilchicken</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had a blast with your prompt! Thank you, dear requester. I hope you enjoy the results.</p><p>Lots of thanks to my wonderful beta, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis">Isis</a>. Any remaining mistakes and/or stylistic issues are mine!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Listen,” said Dandelion, after a large swig of cider. “I know this <em>great</em> place in a village near Farcorners. Serves amazing mead made to some ancient elven recipe out of Skelligan cloudberries, black buckwheat honey, and mint.”</p><p>Dandelion’s taste in alcohol was that of an old woman’s: sugar and fruit. Still, Geralt had to admit the description sounded tempting.</p><p>“I’d agree,” said he, “but Farcorners isn’t exactly the nicest part of Novigrad, and your hat alone would buy twenty rounds of Kaedweni stout. And that doublet? The whole district could booze on it for a week.”</p><p>Ciri laughed at that, and Geralt felt a jolt of satisfaction. Hearing her laugh at his inept jokes after everything they’d been through in the past few months – there was something inexpressibly pleasing about it.</p><p>“I’m sure you will both protect me from any highwaymen with a taste for latest Novigrad fashions,” countered Dandelion.</p><p>Even in this jocular form, that admission in front of Ciri counted for a lot, too. None of Dandelion’s usual chest-thumping about being able to stand up for himself.</p><p>“Come on, Geralt. If this is not the time to literally go the extra mile to celebrate, then when is?”</p><p>Geralt eyed Dandelion critically. For once, a more understated moss green was substituted for the bard’s customary screaming purple, and the costume jewelry on his neck seemed to be going for amber rather than precious stones. Perhaps he wouldn’t stand out <em>that</em> much.</p><p>“Very well: Farcorners it is. But we ride. I’ve been in the city for a while, and Roach needs to stretch her legs.”</p><p>In ten minutes they left behind the oil lights and smoke of the market district and rode into the colder, fresher air of the suburbs. Geralt’s nostrils filled with the smell of dried trout and river water that characterized Farcorners. Roach danced under him a little, champing at the bit; Geralt patted her arched neck, warm with sweat and the last heat of the setting sun.</p><p>The “great place” Dandelion had touted to them turned out to be a little inn built out of round moss-covered logs. It didn't look actively disgusting, which counted for a lot around here, and Geralt found himself nearly charmed by the quaint wooden plaque that read "The Silver Bell Inn." Little bells did, in fact, hang off it, chiming in the wind. Whether they were silver or merely well-polished steel was open to debate.</p><p>The Butcher of Blaviken, the Lady of the Worlds, and Viscount de Lettenhove walked into the inn together.</p><p>"I see the circus is in town," muttered one local denizen. Someone else audibly spat on the floor. In other words, it was business as usual, and Geralt immediately felt right at home.</p><p>"A round of whatever it is my friend recommended to me," he said to the owner, a middle-aged elf with copper earrings in the shape of bluebell flowers. The place was obviously quite committed to the general bell theme.</p><p>"Ah, you probably mean my mead." The elf smiled. "I call it The Bells of Winter, because of the frostiness imparted to it by an infusion of mint and because-"</p><p>"-the word 'bell' just has to be included in anything related to your inn?" finished Ciri.</p><p>"It's called a brand strategy," he replied smugly.</p><p>Marketing or not, the mead turned out to be excellent. It was chilly and sweet and sour, with a heady honey aroma and an earthy note from the clay cups it was served in. The first shot sent a warm buzz through Geralt's body. This was unusual: drinks without a generous helping of White Gull in them usually took a longer time to kick in.</p><p>"Good stuff," observed Geralt.</p><p>"Told you so," said Dandelion. Ciri couldn't contribute, since she was coughing into her sleeve, her face flushed crimson. Her tolerance for strong alcohol was abysmal. Secretly, Geralt thought there was something more than a little endearing in the fact that not even the Elder Blood could protect her from her own metabolism. He'd never tell that to her, of course; he suspected she'd behead him with the newly-forged Zireael for this crime of condescension.</p><p>"So," she said, once she was done coughing. "What's the <em>deal</em> with the bells, hmm?"</p><p>The owner of the inn popped up behind them like a jack-in-the-box.</p><p>“There’s a local legend,” he said, “that tells the story of-”</p><p>“I think I’d better recount the legend myself,” interrupted Dandelion. “This is a task for a professional bard.”</p><p>“Very well,” said Ciri. “Try not to get carried away, though. I’ve always drifted off to sleep wonderfully well to fairy-tales, and the mead’s already making me drowsy.”</p><p>And Dandelion began…</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Once upon a time – <em>that really means a few years ago, but this is a customary turn of phrase, don’t interrupt me, Geralt</em> – once upon a time, there were two girls: Miroslava and Pavlina.</p>
  <p>Miroslava was a shy soul. Ever since her father and brother had been mauled to death by an enraged spriggan, she lived alone on the outskirts of the village and tended to her beehives. Her speciality was a unique variety of apple jam made out of antonovka apples with an addition of honey and white currants. Selling this jam made her enough money to get by and to make some savings, too.</p>
  <p>On Saturdays Miroslava would braid yellow hawkweed into her hair – <em>no, Cirilla, this is a necessary establishing character trait</em> – and worship at the nearby altar of the goddess Mokosh.</p>
  <p>Pavlina, the daughter of the ealdorman, was made of different stuff entirely. The local bandits didn’t touch the village because she befriended them. Agnieszka the Crooked, the Scourge of Velen herself, dined with her. Pavlina rode the countryside around Novigrad on her raven-black stallion, Kasmir, and the flaming red ribbons woven into his tail burned under the summer sun.</p>
  <p>One day Pavlina was riding past Miroslava’s hut. She felt thirsty, so she dismounted and went to knock on the door to ask for water. And of course, once they saw each other, they fell in love.</p>
</blockquote><p>“How romantic,” smiled Ciri.</p><p>“Very,” snorted Geralt. “Agnieszka the Crooked is one of the most prolific murderesses Velen has ever seen. If the tale is to be believed, Pavlina kept highly questionable company.”</p><p>“You’re being such a stick in the mud, Geralt,” said Dandelion. “You need to drink more.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” conceded Geralt, and drank another little cup of the elven mead. It slid down his throat, smooth and fiery, and dissolved into a pool of happy warmth beneath his diaphragm.</p><p>“What happened to Miroslava and Pavlina after?” Ciri asked.</p><p>“I’d tell you if you just stopped interrupting.”</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Miroslava and Pavlina began to see each other. The ealdorman, who wanted grandchildren, did not approve of Pavlina’s choice; and then there was Bazhen the Half-Ear, Pavlina’s childhood admirer, who was seized with a terrible jealousy for Pavlina’s and Miroslava’s love.</p>
  <p>The girls had to meet in secret. Pavlina had a Novigrad smith cast a little bell out of purest silver; its chime was so sweet that it brought tears to one’s eyes. She gave it to Miroslava, and every evening, as Pavlina rode past the nearby alder grove, Miroslava would ring the bell to let her beloved know that she had been able to get away and was waiting.</p>
  <p>They made wreaths out of night-blooming wildflowers, ate bread slathered in Miroslava’s apple jam, and lay together next to the fire while Kasmir stood guard over them. The local godling, who’d taken a liking to Pavlina, made sure they were safe from wild beasts.</p>
  <p>But their happiness didn’t last long. Somehow, Bazhen found out about their secret place and flew into a fury. He cursed Pavlina with a terrible curse that doomed her to die within three moons.</p>
</blockquote><p>“Typical,” shrugged Geralt.</p><p>Dandelion stared into the flickering fire of the tallow candle burning on the table before them. There was a faraway look in his eyes; Geralt wasn’t sure if this expression was theatrical or if the bard was really lost in thought.</p><p>“Yes and no,” said Dandelion. “Yes and no.</p><p>“It is true enough Pavlina was cursed. However, what happened afterwards is anyone’s guess. There was no death, and there is no grave. A few days later Pavlina simply disappeared from the village, and no one ever saw her again. In the evening she went to bed as usual; and in the morning the ealdorman found the house empty and Kasmir still in his stable, his mane braided and adorned with ribbons and his trough full of golden grain.</p><p>“The ealdorman wasted away from grief, and Miroslava left the village never to return. As you see, Geralt, in some ways this tale is like any other tale of tragic love, and in some ways it’s not at all like any of them.”</p><p>“So Pavlina could still be alive,” said Ciri, fishing a plum dumpling out of the bowl in the centre of the table. Not to be outdone, Dandelion grabbed two and stuffed them in his mouth.</p><p>“Perhaps she is,” responded Geralt, “and with my luck, someone will show up any minute now to offer me a princely sum for finding her. But we’re not here in our professional capacity – we’re here to celebrate, aren’t we, Ciri?”</p><p>“So we are,” agreed Ciri, and put her arm around his shoulders. “Although I’m neither a mutant nor a bard, which means I should probably stop drinking soon. But first, a toast.”</p><p>Geralt raised his cup.</p><p>“To you,” he said.</p><p>“To Ciri,” echoed Dandelion. The expression on his face was unusually soft, devoid of any hint of mockery or arrogance. No doubt the drink was making him sentimental; but in truth, Geralt knew that in his own way Dandelion loved Ciri as much as he and Yen did. On Temple Isle, he would’ve protected her with his life if she hadn’t used the Power.</p><p>If there was one thing Geralt had learned from their battle with the Wild Hunt, it was that Ciri evoked love and loyalty in anyone who was at all capable of affection.</p><p>“To friendship,” laughed Ciri, and knocked back the last drops of mead in her cup.</p><p>***</p><p>Ten shots and thirty dumplings later, Dandelion was strumming something on his lute without much regard for harmony and Geralt was the only one still drinking. But even he was getting progressively more unsure of the loudness of his voice and the precise trajectory of his movements. When he looked at the garish green and purple wall rug depicting a meandering forest brook, the water seemed to him to flow and weave just as if it were a portal into another world.</p><p>"That's it for me," said he, blinking a little. "We should go home, put our feet up at the fire, and- hmm."</p><p>He could swear he knew what he wanted to say when he started to speak, but in the space of two sentences it had all vanished into thin air.</p><p>"Reminisce about the times past," suggested Dandelion.</p><p>"That."</p><p>Ciri, on the other hand, had had some time to sober up and was relatively upright when she stood from the table. She wiped the sugar and grease off her fingers and waited for Geralt and Dandelion to join her before making her way to the door.</p><p>The air outside was pleasantly cool on Geralt's sweaty skin and smelled sharply of wet meadowsweet. He mounted Roach and gave the reins a gentle shake, spurring her into an unhurried trot.</p><p>Life was good. He even considered riding up to Dandelion and giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder, but decided to wait until a more appropriate moment.</p><p>Perhaps it was the darkness, perhaps it was the drunkenness, but they veered off the road to Novigrad and took a while to notice the fact.</p><p>"Hm," said Geralt. "It seems we're in the wrong village."</p><p>"In the wrong wreckage, more like," said Ciri, curling her lip. Kelpie let out a loud snort as if to agree.</p><p>The southern part of the village wasn’t too bad; but the house closest to them in the northern half looked as if it had been knocked down by a Nilfgaardian trebuchet. Another one was splattered with gaudy blue paint from the roof to the window dressings, and the front garden of the third was uniformly covered in green glass beads.</p><p>The fourth – a two-story building made out of carved lindenwood, with the gable end painted red and gold – was relatively intact, except for a rather large mural on the front door. It depicted what such murals usually depict, with a remarkable amount of anatomical detail.</p><p>"I've never realized that floppy bit on top could go that way," remarked Ciri, letting go of the reins and stroking Kelpie's withers.</p><p>Dandelion eyed the picture critically.</p><p>"It all depends on individual anatomy," said he. "This doesn't strike me as wholly implausible."</p><p>Ignoring this informative discussion, Geralt dismounted and surveyed their surroundings. His attention was immediately drawn to the village notice board in front of them. It was empty save for a large sheet of yellowed, rain-soaked paper flapping in the wind.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>A contract: THE MOTHERFUCKING GOOSE, it read in a scribe's careful handwriting.</p>
  <p>People! If there be one among you who can hunt down the PLOUGHING ASSHOLE BIRD, I will give you anything, from my late grandma's antique silver-threaded knickers to my firstborn. KILL the AVIAN MONSTER and feed its entrails to the DOGS.</p>
  <p>For further information, talk to Mikhailo the Nice.</p>
</blockquote><p>"Doesn't sound so nice, this Mikhailo," commented Ciri, joining Geralt at the notice board. "What'd the poor bird do to him?"</p><p>"Ha! Talk about being sent on a wild goose chase," said Geralt. Ciri elbowed him in the ribs. Dandelion shook his head, the yellow plume on his hat trembling in the wind.</p><p>Geralt looked at the muddy road beneath his feet. It was almost totally dark by now, and the only illumination was from the torch attached to a nearby fence. Still, he could make out plenty of footprints and smell the variety of scents left by the creatures that had passed through here during the day.</p><p>There was the smell of rancid fat and cottage cheese from a pie merchant; the aroma of cheap floral perfume from one of the local dandizettes; the blood-like smell of iron from the blacksmith and the sharp tangy smell of pig manure from the swineherd. And finally, there were the animals – horses, sheep, and an absolutely staggering amount of geese.</p><p>Geralt had always been vaguely fond of the smell of geese. It reminded him of goose-down pillows and the rare comfort of sleeping on freshly laundered sheets. But this entire village reeked of it. Even with his witcher senses, how was he to pick out the smell of THE MOTHERFUCKING GOOSE from all the rest?</p><p>He was just beginning to think that finding a single bird in this hub of anserine activity seemed a nearly impossible task when he felt the medallion flutter against his chest.</p><p>"The goose is magic," observed Geralt, extracting a small glass vial from Roach's right saddlebag. Its contents were a light grey, smooth like liquid silk. The familiar sour smell of berbercane hit his nostrils as he uncorked and quickly swallowed the potion.</p><p>"I'm not nearly drunk enough for this," said Dandelion.</p><p>***</p><p>The trail crossed the village and went down a winding path leading into a gully overgrown with alder trees. Geralt crept along it, stepping lightly through the wet grass. He could hear Ciri following in his steps, and Dandelion crashing through the undergrowth like a herd of wild boars gorged on fermented grapes.</p><p>The world was a crisp uniform grey before him. Only the gentle movement of leaves in the wind broke the illusion that the trees were an ornament carved into the marble slab of the sky.</p><p>It was not his sight, however, but his hearing that first alerted him to the presence of another living being.</p><p><em>Thump thump thump thump.</em> An unmistakeable heartbeat, but of a heart so small he could hold it between two fingers. The heartbeat frequency was about twice that of a human – in fact, it was entirely too high for any mammal.</p><p>"I can hear its heart," murmured Geralt for the benefit of his companions.</p><p>"Splendid, Geralt," said Dandelion. "You could say the goose hangs high!"</p><p>"No, it sits low. Right in the middle of that gully, in fact, just to the left of the stream."</p><p>He could also hear Ciri adjust Zireael on her back, the silver of it clinking lightly against the handle of her other sword. She of all people knew that powerful malice often lay in wait behind seemingly harmless magical phenomena. The unfortunate state of the village they'd left behind couldn't have inspired much optimism in her, either.</p><p>Nevertheless, Geralt grinned to himself at the mental image of her bravely defending Dandelion from demonic poultry.</p><p>By now they were walking along the stream. Geralt's boots splashed lightly through the shallow water. The tiny heartbeat ahead of him picked up the pace; the creature must've heard their approach.</p><p>Ciri took out a tinderbox and lit a stick of grease-soaked rush pith. In its trembling orange glow, every grass blade threw a long moving shadow. And some ten steps away from them, half-hidden by a bzowina bush, sat a goose.</p><p>"HONK," said the goose. "Honk!!"</p><p>It looked very ordinary, if rather dirty. It had a big yellow bill and two large yellow feet, flat like pancakes. It was a goose.</p><p>"Don't know what I expected," commented Dandelion.</p><p>"I think it wants us to come closer," said Ciri, uncertainly.</p><p>The goose had entered the stream and was standing in the middle of it, water swirling around its legs. Every now and then it would emit a demanding honk and flap its wings, regarding Geralt with what looked suspiciously like thinning patience.</p><p>Geralt shrugged and approached the goose. Ciri came up behind him; and gradually, as she walked, the light of her torch revealed a tall shimmering reflection in the water.</p><p>The image was that of a young girl – barely Ciri's age. She was dressed in a blood red sarafan with golden embroidery at the edges, and two thick plaits the colour of blued steel fell almost to her knees. Her rich sable brows were drawn together, a haughty wrinkle at the bridge of her freckled nose.</p><p>Geralt looked at the goose and then at the reflection, and then at the goose again.</p><p>"Hm," he said.</p><p>The bird ran out of the stream, gleaming water droplets cascading off its feathers. It made its way uphill, towards the edge of the gully, and eventually disappeared into a burrow.</p><p>They waited a few minutes, but it didn't re-emerge.</p><p>"You know, Geralt," began Dandelion, "that looked a whole lot like-"</p><p>A little <em>ding</em> came from inside the burrow, and then another. Soon, the sound grew closer; and then the goose finally came out, holding something small and silvery in its bill. Ding, ding, ding.</p><p>It was a bell.</p><p>"Yeah," said Geralt. "I know."</p><p>"But if the story is to be believed," said Ciri, "Bazhen cursed Pavlina to die, not to turn into random waterfowl."</p><p>Geralt shrugged.</p><p>"Clearly, something went wrong."</p><p>"<em>Honk</em>," said the goose.</p><p>Ciri lowered herself onto her haunches in front of it and put her gloved hand out. The goose gave her a long look but eventually relinquished the bell, dropping it into the centre of her palm.</p><p>“This is not silver,” said Ciri, studying the bell under the last embers of her rushlight. “It cannot be the original bell Pavlina ordered for Miroslava. We will have to find the original bell if we’re to have any hope of lifting the curse.”</p><p>At the sound of Miroslava’s name the goose let out an ungodly scream. Geralt, whose hearing was at times entirely too sharp for his own good, winced at the wave of dull pain the scream sent through his skull. He had never suspected that a simple domestic bird could produce such blood-curdling sounds.</p><p>“Melitele’s knickers!” said Dandelion.</p><p>Ciri offered the bell back to the goose. After a moment’s hesitation, the goose put its plump white head against the soft chamois of her glove and carefully took the bell in its mouth.</p><p>“I’m sure there’s room enough for you in Kelpie’s saddlebags,” Ciri said. “Come. We’re witchers, and we can help you.”</p><p><em>We’re witchers</em>. The plural was unfamiliar but comfortable, like a good pair of old boots one doesn’t remember wearing. Geralt liked the sound of it.</p><p>The goose seemed to like the sound of it, too. It rushed towards the village at a breakneck speed, or as breakneck as a goose is capable of. Soon enough, they were back near the notice board, where Kelpie, Roach, and Pegasus waited patiently for their return.</p><p>It took some coaxing, but eventually Kelpie was persuaded to kneel down on her front legs and the goose was convinced to enter the saddlebags. With that out of the way, the three people on horseback (to say nothing of the goose) rode back to the Silver Bell.</p><p>By that time it was very early morning. The moon had emerged from the clouds, and a tiny strip of cold blue bloomed on the horizon, encrusted with a few clusters of paling stars.</p><p>Now that the mead had worn off and the darkness around them cleared, the mistake they’d made seemed painfully obvious. Instead of turning left at the fork and following the road to the Tretogor Gate, they’d turned right, into a large pine grove. It was this path that had led them to the Unnamed Goose Village.</p><p>“So,” said Dandelion, looking at the goose. “Are you the reason that village behind us looks so fucked?”</p><p>That casual use of curse words was a sure sign of Dandelion’s growing tiredness: normally he made do with more flowery descriptions. After the misadventures of this night, he was clearly aching for a warm fireplace and a honey-glazed gammon joint or two. Geralt could hardly blame him.</p><p>“Honk honk,” the goose responded indignantly.</p><p>***</p><p>When they finally reached the Silver Bell, the owner greeted them effusively. He evidently thought they’d returned for more drink, and his enthusiasm waned a little when Geralt asked him about Miroslava.</p><p>“Doesn’t your professional bard know that?” he grumbled.</p><p>Dandelion crossed his arms.</p><p>“I’m a teller of tales, good sir, not a gossip-monger.”</p><p>“I see precious little difference,” the elf shot back, pressing his lips together.</p><p>Dandelion’s colouring changed to a fetching shade of beetroot red so rapidly that Geralt was concerned that the sudden shift in blood pressure would make him unwell.</p><p>“Excuse me,” he began, in the tone of someone who had no desire to be excused.</p><p>Luckily, in that moment they were interrupted by a gruff-looking man in an old sheepskin sitting behind the nearest table.</p><p>“I know where she is,” said he. “I still buy her apple jam every time she comes to the Novigrad fair.</p><p>“She lives in a village some twenty miles to the east, on the shores of lake Naliv. Only don’t expect her to talk to you: she’s not one for idle chatter.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Geralt. “We promise not to beat about the bush. We have something very important to ask of her.”</p><p>“Twenty miles?” rebelled Dandelion. “Geralt, you’re my dearest friend and the apple of my eye, but I came here to celebrate Ciri’s return, not to make a lengthy detour to the remote hamlet of the Upper Asses. Can this not wait until morning?”</p><p>Ciri laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Please, Dandelion,” said she sweetly. “It’ll be the best celebration I could wish for. I’m sure the story will sell well if you make it into a ballad or three. And haven’t you always wanted to save a beautiful victim of a tragic love affair?”</p><p>Dandelion sighed. “Only for you, Cirilla. But first, another round of mead for the road.”</p><p>And they had another round.</p><p>***</p><p>The sun was at its zenith when they rode to the shores of Naliv. The village where Miroslava lived was a quiet, cosy place shaded by weeping willows. The strip of land directly adjacent to the lake was covered in amber-coloured sand, which was growing steadily hotter now that it was exposed to sunlight. Not wishing to subject Roach to trotting through it, Geralt steered her a little to the left and rode parallel to the shoreline.</p><p>Pavlina – Geralt was starting to think of her as Pavlina – was all but hanging out of Kelpie’s saddlebags, her long neck swinging from left to right like a broken magnetic needle. She’d been increasingly restless the entire ride, and Geralt could hardly fault her for that.</p><p>Spending years as a goose must’ve been pretty dreadful, he thought. No one deserved that – not even a friend of Agnieszka’s. And such a cruel, vile cause for it, too.</p><p>He hoped that Miroslava had kept that bell, if only for old times’ sake. If not, they could still figure something out – a kiss of true love was high on the list – but nothing beat the efficiency of using the victim’s treasured possessions. When it came to technical details, a witcher’s craft was a fairly straightforward affair. Maybe that’s why he liked it so much; there was a sense of simple, minimalistic precision about it, an almost meditative quality.</p><p>Finding Miroslava’s house was easy; the sheer number of beehives and apple trees around it was a dead giveaway. They rode up to the fence and dismounted.</p><p>“Anyone home?” shouted Ciri, pounding on the wooden gate.</p><p>The place smelled mildly of honey and sharply of unripe antonovka apples. Geralt thought he heard a horse neigh somewhere.</p><p>“Who’s this?”</p><p>The gate opened a little, and a short woman poked her head out. She had a black triangular kerchief covering her head, and her large silvery-grey eyes had a quiet sadness about them. Though she was young, little wrinkles were already forming in the corners of her mouth.</p><p>“I’m Geralt of Rivia,” said Geralt, “this is Cirilla, and over there is Dandelion, the bard. We’re here to ask you to lend us your silver bell.”</p><p>In retrospect, it wasn’t the best opening, but it had been a long night and the hangover was beginning to set in. Geralt simply didn’t know how to elegantly and effortlessly broach the subject. <em>Hello, your wife is a goose</em> just didn’t seem to cut it.</p><p>Miroslava frowned. No doubt this dirt-splattered, mead-smelling company inspired no confidence in her.</p><p>“I’m in no mood for practical jokes,” she said, in clipped tones. “Please go.”</p><p>Geralt saw Dandelion brushing the mud off his costume, no doubt in preparation for a valiant attempt at utilizing his charms. He doubted very much that it was going to work, although Dandelion’s dedication to the cause was admirable.</p><p>Thankfully, however, this awkward exchange didn’t have the chance to progress much further. Pavlina jumped out of Kelpie’s saddlebags and ran towards Miroslava, flapping her wings. She pressed herself against Miroslava’s skirts, as if trying to embrace her, pressed her head to Miroslava’s knee, and closed her eyes. She made little tender trills somewhere in her throat – sounds not unlike those a goose would use to call its goslings.</p><p>All in all, the scene was rather unexpectedly heart-wrenching. Both Ciri and Dandelion seemed to be blinking back tears; and although Geralt’s face was stony as ever, he felt an odd kind of sensation just beneath his diaphragm.</p><p>No doubt being fondled by a bird must’ve seemed bizarre to Miroslava, but she was evidently beginning to guess – beginning to hope for something. With trembling hands she took a thin leather cord off her neck and offered it to Geralt. On it hung a little silver bell that shone painfully bright in the midday sun.</p><p>Geralt held the bell over Pavlina and shook it – once, twice, three times. The sound of it was unlike anything else: pure like the call of a nightingale and sweet with the intoxicating sweetness of dessert wine.</p><p>For a moment, nothing happened. Then Pavlina’s form began to shift; the feathers drifted away in a melting cloud of white, her wings turned into red sarafan sleeves, and the flat yellow feet changed into brown leather work slippers. Before them was Pavlina as she had been before the curse – as Geralt had seen her in that forest stream.</p><p>Pavlina and Miroslava fell into each other’s arms. Forgotten was the bell, and forgotten were Geralt, Ciri, and Dandelion. For a few minutes nothing seemed to exist to them but each other.</p><p>Finally, Pavlina turned her head and looked back at Geralt. “I am infinitely thankful to you, witchers,” she said. It was strange to hear her speak; she had a pleasant lilting voice, but with a metallic undertone that hinted at a fiery, unbending will. “I was beginning to lose hope that anyone would come by that awful village.”</p><p>“Please,” said Miroslava, “join us for some tea. We simply have to speak to you.”</p><p>Her face looked entirely changed, almost as if the chime of the bell had transformed her, too.</p><p>“If you’ll permit, we must take our leave,” said Geralt, who suspected Dandelion wouldn’t appreciate being separated from his bed much longer. “But there are some questions I’d like answered.”</p><p>“Nothing would please us better,” said Pavlina. Geralt could think of one or two things that would very clearly please her better, but her politeness was admirable.</p><p>“What, precisely, happened to the village we passed through?”</p><p>He watched her. Her heart was pounding, but hardly without cause; and there was little guilt in her expression as she spoke.</p><p>“I regret what happened,” said she. “But the stupid villagers quite literally did it to themselves. I merely wanted them to call a witcher, not to leap to each other’s throats. But any small action seemed to snowball into a conflict I’d never foreseen.</p><p>“I stole one man’s wedding ring, and his wife became convinced he’d sold it. She left him and painted a giant cock on his front door. How was I to blame? Then there's the ruined house on the outskirts. Do you think a bird could’ve done that? No! All I did was uproot the owner's rosebush. That was enough for him to decide it was his neighbour’s doing and start a bitter year-long feud.”</p><p>Dandelion shook his head. “Such is the nature of man,” he said, “to suspect and vilify his neighbours and loved ones. We live in bitter times.”</p><p>Geralt narrowed his eyes. “And your friendship with Agnieszka the Crooked was merely a coincidence?”</p><p>Pavlina dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Of course it wasn’t a coincidence. How do you think I ended up a goose? I knew long ago that Bazhen would do something stupid. Agnieszka found people who could help, could give me advice.</p><p>“Long before I was cursed, I prepared a body transfer ritual for just such an eventuality. I didn’t want to harm anyone, and so instead of taking over the body of another woman, I chose to become a goose.</p><p>“My only miscalculation was that I did not realize just how monumentally difficult it would be to attract attention in the body of a bird. And I realized very quickly that even if I did attract someone’s attention, the local peasants wouldn’t lift a finger for anything other than their own interest. I had to take initiative.”</p><p>“Seems pretty self-serving,” said Ciri.</p><p>Pavlina’s lips curled into a bitter grimace, and she tightened her hold on Miroslava’s shoulders.</p><p>“It was,” she said. “It was self-serving. That’s why I befriended Agnieszka, too. I was just a little girl when I first saw that if I didn’t make sure that my village was protected – my loved ones were protected – our whole lives would be merely a string of pointless deaths in service of self-important local atamans.</p><p>“I made sure that would never happen. I made sure my and Miroslava’s future was safe. Is that so wrong?”</p><p>Ciri held her gaze for a few moments, and then nodded.</p><p>“I will not be the judge of that,” she said. Then she turned back to Geralt and Dandelion. “I think we had better be on our way.”</p><p>***</p><p>Somehow the ride back was not nearly as interminable as their original journey. Perhaps it was the daylight, or the promise of food, hot water, and soft beds at the end; or perhaps it was simply the company.</p><p>Ciri rode ahead of them, her riding posture easy and self-assured. Zireael gleamed on her back, the same near-painful shine Geralt had seen in the silver of Pavlina’s bell. She was a natural witcher – shaped not by someone’s will but by her own perseverance. Perhaps that, rather than Vesemir’s Sad Albert, would be the future of witcher schools.</p><p>Then Geralt glanced at Dandelion and found that he looked decidedly dreadful. His lush moss-green doublet was in tatters; the plume was gone from his head. Streaks of orange mud decorated his pantaloons, and a mysterious bruise was forming on his cheekbone. All that rushing about in festive clothes clearly hadn’t done him any good.</p><p>There was a smile on his face, however.</p><p>Geralt decided that this, perhaps, warranted a friendly slap on the shoulder.</p>
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